


The World at the End of a String

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Adaptation, Fluff, M/M, Politics, Romance, Schmoop, White House, marine!Brad, president!Fick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>President Fick doesn't flirt with every Marine that he pins a medal on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World at the End of a String

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based. Title inspired by Howie Day's _Brace Yourself_ , and the story itself is inspired by the best moments in the film, _The American President_.
> 
>   
> **Read @** [LiveJournal](http://tea-diva.livejournal.com/17019.html)  
> 

President Fick doesn't flirt with every Marine that he pins a medal on. 

In fact, President Fick doesn't flirt with _anyone_ because he's very aware of the fact that he is the youngest man to be made president, that when he was elected it was by one of narrowest margins ever and that now, three years later and heading into another election, he holds a sixty-six percent approval rating and he certainly doesn't want to do anything to mess that up. 

But there's just something about Gunnery Sergeant Bradley Colbert. 

As Nate makes his way through the guests, shaking hands and exchanging polite small talk, he finds himself constantly glancing over toward the tall figure clad in dress blues and leaning slightly on a darkly polished cane. Invariably, every time his eyes stray, Colbert returns the stare and Nate finds himself caught by a piercing blue-eyed gaze that locks him in place momentarily until he manages to shake it off and return to his duties; only for the process to begin again.

They exchange some banter by the drinks table that is probably too sexually charged for an afternoon luncheon. Their entire dialogue feels a bit like foreplay though Nate is certain they never stray from the realm of appropriate conversation. Mostly they talk about the Corps and the weather and the quality of the food. They don’t even go so far as to discuss anything remotely political.

When Nate moves away though, he feels more awake than he's felt in a long time. 

One luncheon, one brief exchange, and somehow Nate can't get the man out of his head.

______________________________

Nate considers Mike a friend first and foremost.

They met in the Corps when Nate was a lieutenant, freshly transferred into the Marine Reconnaissance Division. Mike was his gunnery sergeant. When the other man finally left the Marines Nate was similarly retired and working on his political career. He had been more than happy to say 'yes' when Mike came round and expressed interest in joining the campaign. 

When it came time for Nate to pick his Chief of Staff he hadn't even hesitated. 

That night as he and Mike are playing pool in the game room Nate asks about Gunnery Sergeant Colbert. He's not asking as a president would ask a question of his second in command, Nate's talking to his friend. His very _good_ friend, who happens to have a lot more connections within the Corps than Nate does. 

To say nothing of the fact that he had spotted Mike chatting amiably with Colbert at the luncheon, laughing like they were old friends, and he can't help that he's curious.

"Colbert?" Mike leans on his pool cue, frowning.

"Yes." Nate's not sure whether it's because he's feeling defensive, but he finds himself meeting Mike's gaze head-on, unblinking. 

He doesn't realize what he's doing until Mike blinks. "Jesus, Nate."

"What?" Nate says, trying to shrug it off. "I'm just curious." He licks his lips and then lines up another shot. "Did he say anything about me?" There's the sharp click as the cue balls strike against each other, the satisfying 'thunk' as one sinks into the pocket. 

"No. He didn't say anything about you," Mike says, wryly. "But I could pass him a note before study hall."

He flashes a half-smile at his friend. "Are you seriously standing there sassing the president of the United States?"

"I'm very sorry sir," Mike says, bowing a little. He does not sound even the slightest bit apologetic.

"Let me ask you this." Nate stands up from the table, resting his hip against the edge. He cocks his head to the side, considering. "Hypothetically, what would happen if I called Gunnery Sergeant Colbert and asked him to be my date to the state dinner this Thursday evening?"

Mike looks thoroughly disapproving. "The president can't just _go out on a date_." 

"Why not? Jefferson did. _Wilson_ did." Nate is warming to this idea. "Wilson was widowed during his first term. He met a woman named Edith Gault; he dated her, courted her and married her, and during _all_ of that he even managed to form a League of Nations." He raises his eyebrows as he adds, "This is something that is in _no way_ in conflict with my Oath of Office. I'm a single adult who met someone I'd like to see again socially. How is that different from Wilson?" 

Mike sighs. "Nate, this is an _election year_. And the _difference_ is that _Wilson_ didn't have to be president on television. It's just a plain fact: the American people have a very funny way of determining what is and what is not their business, and what their leader should and should not be doing."

Nate knows all of this, it's not anything that hasn't occurred to him already. Mike is being annoyingly unhelpful. "How big a hit are we talking about?"

"I don't know, Nate. Five points, maybe more?"

" _Five points?_ " Nate scoffs. He lines up and sinks another shot.

" _Maybe more_." Mike purses his lips. "Do you want me to have Curtz put together some numbers so we can see what we're dealing with?"

"Sure." Nate sinks his next shot and then realizes what he's just said. " _No!_ I don't want to check a polling sample to see if it's alright for me to go on a date, like I'm asking permission to stay out an hour past curfew!" 

Sighing, he leans back on the table and meets his friend's eyes. "I like him, Mike. Stop thinking like my Chief of Staff for one minute and talk to me like my friend…"

Mike sighs again, that exaggerated, put-upon kind of sigh as if working with Nate is the most taxing thing in the world. He fixes Nate with a steady, scrutinizing stare and then says, "Call him."

______________________________

One thing that being president actually _does_ make easier is the whole process of obtaining a person's phone number. There was a time when he might have had to run a gauntlet of awkward flirting, a purchased drink or two and the half-hesitant half-hopeful request: 'Can I maybe call you sometime?', but not any more, because Nate is the president of the United States of America.

Briefly, he considers that this might be an abuse of power, or possibly be interpreted as vaguely stalker-ish. He hesitates for all of two minutes before he determines that the possible gains warrant the risk. He calls in his secretary. "Would you mind getting me Gunnery Sergeant Colbert's phone number please?" then he sits back in his chair and waits.

That's about as far as the simplification goes however, because Nate spends the better part of an hour playing the 'should I? Shouldn't I?' game, just like he knows he would have back in his Dartmouth days. Finally, he picks up his telephone. 

"Brad," Brad's rough, clipped voice says over the line.

"Hello." Nate licks his lips, swallows and clears his throat. He thinks that he wasn't even this nervous and awkward when he was in _high school_. "This is Nate Fick..." and he plans to say more but he doesn't get the chance.

"Oh yes, very funny, _Ray_ ," Brad snaps. 

"Uh. No, this isn't Ray. This is Nathaniel Fick." 

There's a long, exasperated sigh over the line. " _Right_ , well, it's great that you called, _Mister President_ ," the title is dripping with sarcasm, "I actually didn't get the chance earlier today to compliment you on your _very_ fine ass, and also your apparent lack of mental retardation, which is a refreshing quality to find in any politician, but especially so in the representative of the United States of America and makes me feel moderately rueful for not voting for you, though not so much as to sway my vote for the upcoming election." 

Nate hears Brad take a breath but he's too stunned to attempt another correction because, well, Brad thinks he has a nice ass?

Brad was _checking out his ass_?

" _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Ray," Brad continues. "You've pulled some fucked-up shit before, not even counting that whole fiasco with that hooker in Tijuana, but this takes the fucking cake. I already told you I didn't want to hear your stupid impersonation but if you wanted to be taken seriously, which I'm assuming you did since you _blocked your fucking number_ on caller ID, then it should have occurred to a god damned _trained_ Reconnaissance Marine that, president or not, there's no way to call someone who actually is not in possession of a phone. You're the only one who knows I'm staying at Walt's, you whiskey-tango goat-fucking moron! I'm going to hang-up and when I say 'good night' this time Ray, I actually mean it, are we clear? Jesus. Working at the damned White House has made you even more of a retard than you already were. _Good night, Ray_."

There's a rather definitive click and then the steady flat line of a dial tone.

Nate blinks. He's having flashbacks to his own time in the Corps and though he is certain that any other, perhaps much saner, individual might have been put off after such a gross misunderstanding, Nate finds himself sitting there snickering.

He's fairly certain this whole process used to be a lot easier, and marks it down as another aspect of life that has been rendered unnecessarily complicated by his position as leader of an entire country. Now that he thinks of it, the cons seem to outweigh the pros, at least where Nate's social-life is concerned. 

He promptly picks up his phone again and redials.

"Brad, do me a favor," he says when Brad answers, hastily cutting off any opportunity for further misunderstanding. "I want you to hang up the phone and dial 456-1414. When you get the White House operator, give her your name and then tell her that you would like to speak to the president. Okay?" then Nate hangs up.

Three minutes later the phone rings and when Nate says: "Hello?" 

Brad says: "Mister President, sir," and sounds so impossibly contrite and mortified that Nate is grinning and feeling inexpressibly fond, and also thinks that it is entirely possible that somewhere between the award ceremony and this moment he became a fourteen year old girl. Next he'll be doodling hearts around Brad's name during his morning briefings in the Oval office.

"Sir," Brad says, after he makes a few more awkward attempts to apologize. "I'm just unclear as to how you knew to reach me at this number."

Nate holds the phone between his neck and shoulder as he pours himself a glass of whiskey, his gaze momentarily flickering to the door as he fights a grin. Keeping his tone casual he admits, "One of the agents in my security detail actually suggested I try you at this number."

There's a rather telling pause in which Nate tries his very hardest to stifle his amusement. "Was this security agent named Ray Person?"

Nate takes a sip from his glass, still grinning. "Yes."

There's a whooshing rush of breath over the line that sounds very much like, _"I'm going to kill him"_ , which only ratchets up Nate's amusement but after all that, Brad falls silent and Nate realizes that _he's_ the one who made the call and Brad's probably wondering why. There's only so much stalling he can do before Brad catches him out and demands some kind of explanation.

"Listen," he says, mustering his courage. "I'm sure you're probably aware that the French have elected a new president..."

"Yes sir."

The corner of Nate's lip threatens to curl upward and he takes a steadying breath. "I assure you that you are under no obligation, but we're having a formal state dinner at the White House and I wondered if you would care to attend with me?"

There's a long stretch of silence before Brad clears his throat. "To be clear, sir. You're asking me to attend the state dinner at the White House? With you?"

"That's affirmative Brad. As my date."

Another pause, this one shorter, and Nate finds himself holding his breath. But then Brad says, "Alright. I mean, yes, sir," and Nate can breathe again. 

He drops down onto his leather sofa and rests his glass against his forehead because, holy fuck, he has a date. Seriously, what the hell is he thinking? He's never been so excited for a stupid political dinner in his life; he is so very screwed.

"Brad? You don't have to call me 'sir'."

Nate can practically hear the shit-eating grin on Brad's face. "Understood, _Mister President_."

______________________________

State dinners, like most political dinners, are incredibly tedious. Most everyone spends the majority of their time walking on eggshells with one another, terrified that one misquote or mispronunciation could begin the next war. This time, however, Nate has Brad, who is witty and sharp with terribly precise manners, a dangerous smile, and a ruthlessly dry sense of humor.

They get a moment alone just before dessert is served and Brad leans over. "I have to ask, sir. Do you do this often?"

Nate swallows a mouthful of his champagne before carefully setting his glass down. He raises his eyebrows. "Do you mean, do I attend many seemingly interminable political dinners?" 

Brad's eyes drop to the pristine white tablecloth and then up again. "No. I mean, do you go on many dates. Sir."

Nate has noticed that Brad says 'sir' whenever he asks a question that verges on being personal, which Nate finds surprisingly endearing. He wonders if it's the Marine training, or if it's just that Brad feels nervous because Nate's the president. Most likely it's a bit of both. Really, Nate should probably try to put a stop to it but over the course of the night he has noticed it's been happening less and less, and he takes that as a good sign. Maybe Brad's becoming more at ease with all of this.

He clears his throat and says, "Not many at all. This is the first one in a long while. How about you?"

"I go on a lot of first dates," Brad says, smirking.

Nate rolls his eyes instinctively and then has to check that no one saw that extremely casual and entirely inappropriate behavior. For once nobody seems to be looking at him. "So then you have some experience," he says, hiding his smile behind his champagne glass. "How is this one going so far?"

He watches as Brad's eyes flick around the room taking-in the décor, the fresh flowers, the musicians seated on the make-shift stage, the various world leaders and key political figures seated at the tables and milling around deep in conversation, the wine and the champagne and the caterers, the sparkling jewelry. Then that blue gaze sweeps out toward the hall where the brass band had greeted them and the Marine guard had escorted them in. 

Brad shrugs. "It's hard to say at this moment. So far it's fairly standard first date stuff. Though," he pauses, flashing an inscrutable look at Nate, "You did neglect to bring me flowers. Or compliment me on my shoes."

Nate jerks his eyebrows up. "How remiss of me. My apologies." He leans back in his chair and glances pointedly at Brad's feet. "Those are, by far, the most polished shoes I have ever seen."

Brad snorts on a laugh, which he attempts to drown with a sip of his champagne. When he looks up again his expression is perfectly schooled. "I'm afraid that doesn't count. You had to be prompted."

______________________________

Nate asks for the number to a florist.

He's fairly certain it's a simple request. He'd look it up himself but he doesn't have a computer in the Oval office, which strikes him as a serious oversight. His secretary proceeds to panic that she is about to be fired because he specifies that he wants to make the call himself.

"I don't understand, sir," she says, looking just short of tears.

"Janie, it's fine," he says in his most reassuring voice. "I want to order some flowers but I would prefer to place the order myself. I just need the phone number to a local florist."

He has to chase away a few of his staff members who are waiting to pounce on him and take the opportunity of the door opening as Janie returns with the requested phone number to try and push their way in. He promises that he will take only two minutes. "It's just a quick phone call." 

Perhaps he spoke too soon.

Getting an outside line is simple enough, however not so simple is choosing what kind of floral arrangement he wants to send. He knows that Brad was joking the other night but it strikes Nate as one of those things guaranteed to generate amusement and appreciation, however much he anticipates Brad will bitch about actually receiving the flowers.

In the end, Nate goes for the tried and true one dozen roses and promptly hits the next snag. "Janie," he says, putting the florist on hold and buzzing in to his secretary. "Do you have any idea where my credit cards are?"

"They're in storage in Boston, sir, with the rest of your personal items."

Right. Of course. "Thank-you, Janie." 

He switches back to the florist. "I apologize for this," he says. "Would it be possible to bill me for the flowers?" 

"Of course," says the florist. "If I could just have your name?" 

"Yes, this is Nathaniel Fick." There's silence on the end of the line and then a thudding sound. "Hello?" 

He doesn't receive an answer. Nate checks the connection but there's nothing wrong with it, the person on the other end of the line is just not responding. Eventually he hangs up, feeling inexplicably guilty.

When he asks Brad over for a casual and private dinner three days later he finds out that Brad appreciates hearing the story about how Nate tried and subsequently _failed_ to get him flowers more than he probably would have enjoyed the flowers themselves.

______________________________

Everything is going so well that naturally Nate should have anticipated this.

Still, he can't quite believe it when he finds himself giving a press conference explaining his position regarding new developments in the Middle East and the reporters are asking him more questions about his dinners with Brad, and whether or not Brad stays the night at the White House, than they are about the loss of life that occurred the previous night and the consequences to the hard line position that Nate has taken with regards to these latest events. 

If he thinks that it will end there he's wrong because when he finally wraps up his day and makes it back to the private residence he has all of ten minutes to strip off his tie and kick off his shoes, and then he's notified that Brad has arrived.

"Yeah, show him through." A moment later there's a knock on his bedroom door and then Brad strides in wearing blue jeans and a button down and a blazer, looking ruffled and wonderful and Nate thinks that maybe things are finally looking up.

Then, because it's just that kind of day, Brad fixes Nate with a _look_ and says, "I just came over to tell you why we have to break up."

Nate sighs. "Right."

"Nate, I don't want you to think that I haven't enjoyed the time we've spent together, but this relationship has catastrophe written all over it. If I were on your staff I would inform you that the absolute _worst_ thing that you could do coming into an election year is to open yourself up to character attacks. And the quickest way to do that would be to prance around like the Playboy of the Western world."

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to order his thoughts. "Firstly, Brad, I seldom prance. Once, in grad school, I might have sashayed, but that was for a _very_ good cause. Secondly, I have no intention of engaging in a character debate and thirdly, why is it that you can only call me 'Nate' when you're trying to break up with me?"

"I'm thinking about your career, here. This morning's press conference will not be the end of this. I refuse to be your Monica Lewinsky."

Nate smirks. "Brad, if you were my Monica Lewinsky we'd both be infinitely less frustrated at this present moment."

"You need to take this seriously, Nate."

Nate bridges the distance between them, until they're barely a foot apart. "I _am_ taking this seriously, Brad. You have _no idea_ how seriously. But I'm the president of the United States and there are people on staff, a great many people, who are actually paid to sort things like this out for me, and tell me the right kind of spin to put on it so the press doesn't implode on itself in its excitement to rush the story to print." 

He rolls his shoulders back, his expression serious but entirely determined. "I'm still everything I was when I first ran for office, except now I am pursuing a relationship with a decorated, honorably discharged Marine with whom I have never served, and had _never_ met before three weeks ago. I'm not sure how much the opposition can find within all of that with which to assassinate my character."

"They'll manage."

Nate nods. "If they do, so be it." He's perfectly aware that his 'que sera sera' attitude is not going to instill much faith or go very far in assuring Brad that he knows what he's doing. That he wants this whatever the cost might be. 

"I'm not an idiot, Brad. I can see the sense in putting this off until I lose the election, or after my second run in office. I can see the sense in playing it safe. But I don't need you to make decisions for me. I got here on my own; I know what I'm doing. Right now we're in my private residence and the only thing I give a shit about is whether or not you find me attractive." 

Licking his lips, Nate adds, "Just tell me what _you_ want."

Brad moves into the kiss slowly so Nate has time to see it coming and move away if he wants to. The hesitancy makes him roll his eyes and Nate reaches out and pulls Brad against him, presses their mouths together and oh, _yes_. It's like a zinging jolt of electricity that zips through his body, and Brad's hands are on him, and Nate realizes his own hands are all over Brad and it's good.

"This is going to work out." Nate pushes Brad's jacket off his shoulders and onto the ground.

Brad licks a stripe from Nate's bared shoulder up to just behind his ear, his breath tickling over damp skins as he says, "Sir, I think you have been watching too many gay-ass, starry-eyed, nonviable, cock-and-bull Disney movies."

"That is entirely possible. I _do_ watch a lot of Disney when I'm not ruling the free world."

Nate's nerves don't hit him until Brad has worked him free of his shirt and his belt, and tugs him down onto the bed. Bracing his hands on either side of Brad's head Nate tries to catch his breath. He frowns. "I feel I should caution you here."

"Seriously?" Brad says, breathy. " _Now?_ "

"It's been a very long time for me."

Brad's pale eyebrows jerk upward, but he says, "That's okay."

Nate clears his throat. "Also, any expectations that you might have given that I'm…"

"The most powerful man in the world?" Brad prompts, smirking.

"Right, exactly. I want it to be clear that it's purely a political distinction that comes with the office. I mean, if Eisenhower were here right now instead of me he'd probably be dead by now and…"

Brad chooses that moment to tug him back into another kiss that promptly derails whatever logical argument Nate might have been trying to piece together, so in the end he gives up the nerves in favor of trailing his mouth along Brad's neck and down his chest.

Turns out there was nothing to be nervous about anyway.

______________________________

It gets worse before it gets better. The opposition launches attack after attack, first on Nate and then they branch out and go after Brad. There's not so much they can do to Brad though, because he's a highly decorated Gunnery Sergeant with a long-standing career with the USMC and not a single person from the Corps is prepared to speak badly or spread gossip about a war hero.

Brad attended a military school and there are no high school enemies prepared to grind their axes on national television in exchange for fifteen minutes of fame. To say nothing of the fact that he is a Marine who was honorably discharged after an injury received in active duty.

"It also helps that they're all fucking terrified of you, Brad," Ray says as he ushers them through the throngs of reporters. "Give them that look. I swear to god, that stone-cold glare is what won us the war..."

"Shut up, Ray."

Nate's career with the Corps ended far enough back that most people tend to forget he ever went to war. It spares him some of the barrage but not all of it. In the end, he takes a stand and gives a press conference that firmly and solidly declares his position and smacks down the opposition without launching any retaliatory smear campaign or stepping outside of the political sphere. 

Nate plays politics according to how he believes the political sphere _should_ operate and though for most of it Brad calls him a naïve, patriotic, hair-brained fantasist who is on the fast-track to disillusionment and disappointment he doesn't ever mention breaking up again, he comes over every night that it's possible and when Nate is traveling or keeping ridiculous hours there's always at least one message waiting for him whenever he takes a break or turns in for the night. 

Nate thinks all of this is totally worth it.

"You have the most ridiculous fucking luck of anyone in the entire world," Mike says with a grin, and then he hands over a stack of papers. 

When Nate looks down the very first thing he sees are the new polling stats. Somehow he hasn't only returned to the numbers he'd been at before he had ever met Brad, but he's managed to surpass them. Nate doesn't intend to get ahead of himself because he hasn't won the election _yet_. It doesn’t really mean anything until he's re-elected, but this is something. A hell of a big something.

______________________________

Nate knows better than to say that it's their anniversary but it is and whether Brad is aware of it or not they've been celebrating it for the better part of the evening. It's no small feat to shuffle appointments and responsibilities around to end his day mid-afternoon, but Nate managed it.

True, a quiet night in isn't the same as a romantic getaway, but he's fairly certain he couldn't have packed Brad into a car and driven off to a private destination without the rest of the country missing them, and he's also confident that he couldn't have even managed to smuggle Brad to the damned lodge without the man putting up some kind of protest. In the end, this is just simpler. 

Brad's automatic deprecation of anything explicitly romantic is something they're working on.

Standing up from the table, Nate carefully refills Brad's wine glass. "There's one thing that I've been meaning to give you for a long time." 

Brad, to his credit, neither blinks nor reacts in any outward way when Nate picks up a bouquet of a dozen deeply red roses that he had been hiding behind a porcelain tea set in the China cabinet, and hands it over. Brad accepts the flowers somewhat awkwardly, but he _does_ accept them. 

Nate says, "Brad, those are some of the most finely polished shoes I have ever seen." Then he bends down and licks Brad's lips apart and proceeds to kiss the man senseless. The flowers end up on the ground and Nate ends up straddling Brad in the chair and, okay, maybe that wasn't exactly how Nate had thought this would go but he's not objecting.

"You finally found a florist who believed you when you said you were Nate Fick?" Brad asks as they break the kiss and lean back from each other to catch their breath.

Nate grins. "Actually, it turns out I have a rose garden."

Brad blinks and then leans a little further back to get a better look at Nate's face, maybe in order to assess whether or not he's serious. "I have serious concerns for your situational awareness, sir. Do you mean you were living in the White House for an entire term and you didn't know you had a rose garden?"

"To be fair, it's not like I have much free time to explore the place." Brad seems wholly unconvinced so Nate changes tactics. He widens his eyes and drops a quick kiss at the corner of Brad's lips. "Accept the flowers, dear, and say 'Thanks very much, honey, I love them.'"

"Don't think that I don't know what you're doing here."

Despite his illustrious career in politics Nate finds himself horribly incapable of playing innocent with Brad. "What are you talking about?"

"The afternoon off, the evening free? Did you think I wouldn't notice that dinner was all my favorite foods? Or the _candles_ and now, _flowers_?" Brad looks faintly disappointed. "I can't believe you're trying to trick me into celebrating our anniversary. Did you think that I wouldn't notice?"

"There were no tricks involved. We ate dinner, which was delicious as usual, now we're heading up to the bedroom. You can not expect me to believe that you have a problem with this. We do this almost every night."

Brad still looks faintly mistrusting. "There's no ring hidden in the crème brule, is there?"

Nate smirks. "Babe, if I got you a ring I wouldn't stick it in a pudding."

"I refuse to be your first lady," Brad continues, grimacing.

"I genuinely hate to break this to you but Ray already calls you that. Also, I have been reliably informed that he campaigned for over three months to have it made your official code name."

"But he didn't succeed. Besides, Ray's a whiskey-tango, sister-fucking moron. If you do something truly retarded, like propose to me while you're in office, then the American public will no doubt dub me something equally heinous and I am afraid that's where I draw the line."

"Right," Nate nods, very earnestly. "No 'first lady'. You can be the 'first gentleman'."

Brad shakes his head. "No, that sounds equally as gay. If not more so."

"Come up to the bedroom with me. We can talk about this later." Nate is already working Brad's clothes off him but there's only so much success he can have when the man is not being entirely cooperative.

"Mm," Brad says as Nate shifts his shirt aside and swipes his tongue along the exposed skin he finds. "You don't have a ring hiding somewhere in the bedroom, do you?"

Nate huffs. "I do, in fact, have a ring. A _cock_ ring, which I will put to good fucking use if you don't hop-to and get your ass to the bedroom this minute, Gunnery Sergeant."

Brad's grin is slow and wide and entirely devious. "Sir yes sir."

Nate smacks Brad's ass as they head toward the door. 

There's no ring anywhere, not yet.

Maybe next year…


End file.
